“I want to see you again,”
Brett whispered.

“I don’t think—”

“I never got a real date. It wasn’t very nice to cancel that way.”

Tricia shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Good, then I’ll accept your apology Friday night when we go out. Think you can get a sitter?”

When Tricia hesitated, Brett pressed his advantage. “Because if you can’t, I can probably call your friend Charity to sit for you. But then I’d have to explain how you canceled out on the first date and—”

“I can get one.” And with that, she left with her kids.

He should have been counting his blessings that her son had tried to stop all this craziness before any real damage was done. But he could only feel relieved and grateful he’d get the chance to see Tricia again.

DANA CORBIT

has been fascinated with words since third grade, when she began stringing together stanzas of rhyme. That interest, and an inherent nosiness, led her to a career as a newspaper reporter and editor. After earning state and national recognition in journalism, she traded her career for stay-at-home motherhood.

But the need for creative expression followed her home, and later, through the move from Indiana to Michigan. Outside the office, Dana discovered the joy of writing fiction. In stolen hours, during naps and between carpooling and church activities, she escapes into her private world, telling stories from her heart.

Dana makes her home in Michigan, with her husband, three young daughters and two cats.

A New Life
Dana Corbit

MILLS & BOON

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But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their

strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles;

they shall run, and not be weary; and they

shall walk, and not faint.

—Isaiah 40:31

To my parents, James and Janet Corbit and

Curt and Alice Berry. Thank you for being convinced

for me even when I wasn’t sure and for listening

to my stories, each more fanciful than the last.

I would like to wish a special thanks to

Lieutenant Joel Allen, Trooper Christopher Grace

and Trooper Rene Gonzalez of the Michigan State

Police for opening their world to me.

Any mistakes in the story are my own.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

“Strike. Yes!”

Max shot both hands into the air and did a happy dance on the lane, though two pins—the four and the nine—still stood firmly.

“Oh, brother,” six-year-old Rusty, Jr. said, shaking his head. “They call that a ‘split,’ not a ‘strike.’”

Max shrugged, showing off his million-dollar grin. “Split. Yes,” he called out, repeating the dance with the gusto of a four-year-old.

Tricia Williams laughed out loud, and her three children fell into a cackling heap on top of their spring jackets that were piled on the floor. Their squeals only added to the noisy Saturday night atmosphere at Milford Bowling Lanes, combining with the crash of pins and the loud music from a nearby private event room.

It felt great to laugh again, to really laugh and not to feel as if she had to push air from her diaphragm to bolster the sound. In the two years since her husband Rusty’s death, she’d sensed a compassionate—but relentless—scrutiny from her friends at Hickory Ridge Community Church who wanted to make sure she was all right. And she was. Her children were, too. Maybe her little family wasn’t back to normal, but they’d found a new normal. If only she could convince her friends that she was fine.

“Hey, sweet pea, why don’t you roll your ball again and see if you can hit one of those pins?” she told Max as she extracted him from the pile.

With another between-the-legs, agonizingly slow roll, the boy picked up the four pin, assisted by a good bounce from the gutter guards.

While the young mother marked down the score, her daughter Lani leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Do you think we should tell the man on the next lane that they can put the gutter things up for him, too?”

The struggle not to laugh again made Tricia’s chest ache. She’d been trying not to notice the dark-haired man on lane fourteen for the last twenty minutes, since he’d settled in and started throwing a record-setting number of gutter balls. He was either terribly distracted or the worst bowler she’d ever seen.

“No, we’d better not,” Tricia whispered back, giving her daughter a side glance. Lani’s sly smile showed she was joking and, as always, she seemed older than her seven years. Tricia reached up to ruffle the deep-brown tresses of her child’s bob haircut.

“Mom, watch me bowl.” Rusty, Jr. stood poised with an eight-pound ball, wiggling his backside into his best pro bowling form.

“Okay, let’s see you roll a strike. You’re doing it just right.”

It felt right, too, just being here on a rare night out with her three favorite people, even if it strained the tightrope budget she tried so hard to balance every month. Watching her children enjoy themselves almost relieved her guilt over telling the white lie that freed up her calendar for a bowling night. Almost, but not quite.

They continued through the frames of their game, but none of their performances compared to the show going on in the next lane. While before, the man couldn’t hit a pin with a two-by-four, now his black ball seemed unable to miss one. Tricia half expected someone to recognize him at any moment as an escapee from the pro-bowlers’ tour.

“Look, Mommy, the man isn’t throwing gutter balls anymore,” Max pointed out two octaves louder than his regular speaking voice.

Tricia pressed an index finger to her lips to hush her son, her cheeks burning. At least the guy had the decency not to look at them, though he must have heard. His chest moved slightly a few times as he seemed to be trying not to laugh. His profile transformed as a dimple, incongruous with the earlier determined flex of his jaw, appeared on his cheek. On his next frame, he even missed a pin.

“Kids, what are we here to do? Bowl or talk?” Tricia said finally.

“Bowl!” the three chorused as they turned back from their interesting neighbor.

So they returned to the game, with Tricia’s applause and encouragement accompanying her children’s giggles. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on the game, she couldn’t help sneaking curious glances at the next lane.

Why was such a handsome man bowling alone on a Saturday night? Why had he seemed so preoccupied when he’d arrived? And an even bigger question: why did it matter to her? He was probably just like the four of them, trying to get one last visit in before the bowling alley closed so it could be renovated into a minimall. Besides, she hadn’t been so much as curious about a member of the male gender in the last two years.

No one would know it from the number of blind dates she’d gone on recently. It seemed that everyone with a Christian friend-of-a-friend had introduced them, hoping to create a perfect match. Her friend Charity probably had the same hopes for the blind date Tricia was supposed to have been on tonight. If she hadn’t cancelled.

Didn’t these matchmakers realize she was already in love—with Rusty. And she always would be. He’d just gone to be with God a little ahead of her, that was all. She couldn’t blame her well-meaning church friends; they just didn’t understand. God only gave people one love like that in a lifetime, and she’d already had hers. Even though she was a widow and only twenty-six, she didn’t think it was fair of her to ask Him for more.

Trying to focus, Tricia rolled her ball. She smiled at her children over her dismal effort but suddenly felt too guilty to laugh with them. It wasn’t her blind date’s fault that her heart was permanently off the market. She’d been rude to cancel at the last minute. Tomorrow, right after church, she would phone him and try to reschedule.

Obviously, she needed to stop being nosy about the man in the next lane and focus on her own behavior. Still, out of her peripheral vision, she watched the man as he stepped off the lane and sipped his soda. He swiped his hand through his dark-brown hair, but since it was clipped so close, it did little more than flutter. Funny how the haircut made his strong jaw appear so pronounced.

“My turn now,” Max called out, grabbing his ball and rushing up to throw it.

It might have been his best effort yet if he’d bowled in the right lane, instead of the one being used by their distracted neighbor.

“Wait, Max,” Lani called out too late.

Max’s eyes were wide as he turned to look back at the man. Tricia choked back a laugh. Maybe it was time to turn in those glamorous bowling shoes. But she’d paid good money for this game, and she wasn’t about to leave until they’d bowled their last frame.

Prepared to apologize for her child, she turned toward the guy she’d been trying to ignore all night. A pair of startling light-brown eyes looked down at her before the guy threw back his head and laughed.

Brett Lancaster couldn’t believe he was laughing. Especially at the woman staring back at him. Or about any female after the day he’d had—the last few years he’d had. But then she laughed along with him, her children joining her like a merry pack of hyenas.

Before, he’d noticed how striking the woman was. Only a blind man would have missed that. But when a smile spread across her heart-shaped face, she transformed into movie-star dazzling. With the contrast of that shiny, dark hair and fair, flawless skin, she resembled a porcelain doll, one that had just been removed from the box for a trip to…the bowling alley.

The crash of pins from that slow-moving ball stirred him from his reverie in time to remember his manners and stop staring. He turned to see the pins, in real-time slow motion, fall one by one.

“Wow, sport, you got a strike.” Brett stepped forward and extended his hand for a high-five. The boy looked to his mother for approval before giving a slap that smarted.

“Sorry.” Twin pink spots stained the woman’s cheeks. “Max accidentally bowled on the wrong lane.”

“Why are you apologizing? Young Max here just improved my score. Thanks, kiddo. You know, I wasn’t doing so well earlier.”

“Yeah, you needed some of these gutter things like we have,” the older boy chimed. “If you ask at the desk—”

“Thanks, but I don’t need them now. My score’s getting pretty good.”

“Because I got a strike,” Max announced importantly.

“I’m doing really good, too.” The older boy pulled the sheet off the scoring table and flashed it at him.

“Why aren’t you keeping score?” asked the girl who looked like a junior version of her mother.

“I didn’t figure I’d win any trophies.”

He couldn’t help smiling at the endearing way the children angled for his attention, perhaps as they would when their dad came home from work. Did he come home? Discreetly, he glanced at the mother’s left hand. She wore no wedding ring, or any other rings for that matter.

An unsettling sensation moved inside his chest, something he attributed to indignation on this family’s behalf. These sweet kids were probably victims of another deadbeat dad, like so many of the troubled youths he dealt with in his work. The guy had probably walked out on this young mother after promising her the world.

The woman caught him staring and blushed even more prettily, fidgeting with her delicate hands. “Come on, guys, we’ve bugged the gentleman for long enough.” She glanced at her watch. “We need to finish this game and get home. It’s getting late, and we have church in the morning.”

“Aw, Mom,” came the trio in chorus.

“Please, just one more game?” the girl said.

Brett was glad the child hadn’t turned that cajoling tone on him, or he might have given her his car and thrown in a twenty-CD changer for good measure. A bad idea since he was driving a loaner from his dad’s dealership tonight.

Not taking time to wonder why he wanted to spend even more of his Saturday night in a bowling alley with a mom and her passel of children, he approached the taller of the two petite brunettes.

“Come on, Mom,” he said, using the same tone the girl had used. “Just one more game. You won’t get the chance after this place closes.”

The way “no” was written in her stiff posture made him glad he hadn’t offered to spring for the game. She probably thought he was an ax murderer who bowled while his ax was being sharpened. He’d already turned to retrieve his badge from the bi-fold wallet in his jacket pocket when she finally spoke.

“That’s probably not a good idea—”

“I’m not a criminal, really.” Maybe not a criminal, but desperate—he sure sounded that. To cover the awkward silence, he extended his hand and said, “I’m Brett Lancaster.”

He would have continued by saying “Michigan State Police,” the way he usually did, but this lady blanched at his name alone. Now that was a reaction he’d never received from a woman.

Unable to resist a call to protect, he reached beneath her elbow to steady her. Her skin was so smooth where she’d pushed up her shirt sleeve, he could have sworn he’d grasped fine silk. He almost worried he’d snag it with his own calloused palm.

“Is there something I can get for you, ma’am? Water?”

She shook her head, but she still appeared dazed. The children weren’t any help, crowding their mother and making worried sounds instead of giving her room to breathe.

Finally, when he couldn’t decide whether to shake her alert or call for a paramedic, she offered a strange, apologetic smile and extended her free hand. “Hi, I’m Tricia Williams. And these are my children Lani, Rusty, Jr. and Max. Kids, this is Mr. Lancaster.”

Tricia Williams? His frustration from earlier began to fester again but the feeling subsided. This was too funny to make him mad. Who ever heard of getting stood up and then ending up meeting face-to-face out on the town, anyway?

Coincidence? Not really. The village of Milford, Michigan, was too small for any chance meeting to be called a coincidence. There just weren’t that many places to go. And since he hadn’t called in to pick up his messages—and her cancellation—until he was already on Milford Road just outside the village limits, he’d figured the bowling alley was as good a place as any to blow off some steam. He deserved at least that after being idiot enough to let his sister badger him into a blind date in the first place. Had he learned nothing from his last relationship fiasco? Like never to get involved again?

“Tricia. So we finally meet.” Brett chuckled as he reached to shake her hand, but his laughter died as soon as they touched. Her hand felt so small, while his was huge and clumsy. As their gazes connected, he glimpsed sadness beneath her smile, but Tricia glanced at the ground and pulled her hand away. When she looked up at him again, whatever he’d seen before had disappeared.

“Yes, finally. Charity has been trying to arrange this thing forever.”

“Oh, yeah, Charity, my sister Jenny’s friend from the hospital. So that’s how this whole thing got set up.”

Now that he knew her identity, he also remembered the vague details his matchmaker sister had provided: attractive, Christian, age twenty-six, widowed mother of three. That last detail had nearly made him call the whole thing off, but his sister’s persuasive skills were legendary. Before, he’d suspected that this woman had been deserted, but now that he knew who she was, he also understood Tricia had been forsaken in a more painful and permanent way.

“Mommy, look at this,” Lani called out.

They turned to see the children taking turns leaning over the ball return, the fan blowing their hair.

“Okay, guys, we’ll finish this game and play another quick one. Then it’s home to baths and bed.”

Squeals of delight caused others at nearby lanes to shoot curious glances their way.

But Max drew his eyebrows together. “No bath.”

His mother whisked him up in her arms and started spinning. “Yes, bath. With lots and lots of soap.”

The child made a face only a mother could love and scrambled out of her arms. Rusty, Jr. was already winding up for his frame, while his sister sat at the desk, attempting to keep score. Happiness lit Tricia’s eyes as she turned back to Brett.

“So this is what you cancelled on me for?” he couldn’t help asking. Tricia’s shoulders shifted. “Your exact words on my machine were ‘I’m sorry, but something important came up.’”

She nodded. “And something important did. Actually, three important things.”

“I can see that.” He could. So why did he feel strangely jealous over the children she had chosen to spend time with rather than him? He should have been used to having women toss him away by now.

“I tried to reach you before you left home. Charity told me you rent a house in Brighton.”

“I do, but I had some errands to run and came into town early.”

She didn’t ask him to elaborate, which was just as well because he would like to forget about his visit to his parents’ house in Bloomfield Hills and the disappointment he still sensed every time his dad looked at him. When would his family finally accept that he was doing something for himself this time and they weren’t going to change his mind? On the next lane over, he watched several pins fall, except for a lonely six pin. He, too, was standing alone these days. It wasn’t the life he’d expected, but at least he’d regained his pride by following his heart.

Surprised he’d been daydreaming again, Brett glanced back at Tricia and caught her studying him. Though she looked away, a sensation of warmth settled in his chest.

“Well, I’m up pretty soon, so…”

He should have appreciated her attempt to make it easy for him to bow out, but he found he wasn’t ready to leave. Instead of answering her, he crossed the hardwood surface to where her little girl was preparing to bowl.

“You know, Lani, I bet you’d hit more pins if you tried this.” He pointed to the arrows on the floor. “Try aiming your ball at the very center arrow.”

Soon, he had all three children vying for his bowling tips and the grown-up attention from “Mr. Brett” that went with them. No way would he admit it to his fellow troopers at the Brighton Post, but this had to count as his best Saturday night in months. No, he wouldn’t allow his thoughts to go there and spoil the happy moment.

In the middle of an arms-looped celebration dance with Rusty, Jr. over the boy’s first strike, Brett caught sight of Tricia watching him again, her expression stark without the contented mask she’d worn all night.

How he could have missed her lovely eyes before, he couldn’t imagine. Framed by spiky lashes, they were dark, shiny brown and huge, strangely both too large for her face and perfect in their porcelain backdrop. Their hollow quality, though, captured him, reeling him in, making him ache in the vicinity of his heart. She looked like a waif, and he felt this need to protect her. For an unguarded second, her expression hinted she just might let him.

Brett wasn’t sure what had passed between him and the mother of the Williams children—only that whatever it was, Rusty, Jr. had seen it, too. With an abrupt jerk, the boy ripped away his hand and marched to the bench, where he dumped off his bowling shoes.

“Mom, it’s time to go. We have to get up for church.” Already, the boy had his sneakers on and was holding up Max’s for him.

It didn’t take a psychology degree for Brett to recognize the boy’s jealousy over his mother. He couldn’t blame him for feeling threatened. What had he been thinking, looking at Tricia with the hope that he could heal her heart, that maybe she could even heal his?

“He’s right. We’d better get home.” Tricia’s gaze was apologetic, if guarded. Had she felt it, too?

Max stomped his foot. “I don’t want to go.”

“But we’re having fun,” Lani whined. “Do we have to?”

“It’s getting late. I’ll have to drag you guys out of bed in the morning.”

Tricia bent to change her shoes, but Max wouldn’t budge. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and folded his arms.

“Max, do I need to count to three?” Tricia asked in a low warning, but the boy didn’t even look up. “One…two—”

Before she could reach three, Brett scooped him up and tickled his belly. “Hey, bud, you’d better listen to your mom. You don’t want her to say we can’t play together anymore, do you?” Upside down, Max shook his head.

Tricia’s surprised expression showed she’d gotten the message about another play date. As he carried the child to her, she met him halfway, probably to remain out of her older son’s earshot.

“I want to see you again,” Brett whispered.

She accepted Max into her arms. “I don’t think—”

“I never got a real date. It wasn’t very nice to cancel that way. Not quite a lie, but almost.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Good, then I’ll accept your apology Friday when we go out.” As he waited for her to look at him, he sensed victory. “Think you can get a sitter?”

When she hesitated, he pressed his advantage. “Because if you can’t, I can probably call your friend, Charity. But then I’d have to explain how you cancelled out on the first date and—”

“I can get one.”

With that she stalked away and helped Max tie his shoes. Rusty, Jr. refused to look in Brett’s direction, but Lani kept peeking back. Both she and Max waved at him as their mother hurried them out the door.

The bowling alley felt empty as soon as the troop left. If he had any sense at all, Brett would simply forget to call about Friday and chalk the whole situation up to bad judgment in his letting Jenny set him up. He was in way over his head by considering even one real date with a widow, let alone a widow with children. If Tricia Williams’s baggage was weighed at an airport, it would be stamped “heavy” and slapped with a surcharge. But here he was tempted to offer to carry it for her, anyway.

He should have been counting his blessings that her son had tried to stop all this craziness before any real damage was done. But he could only feel relieved and grateful he’d get the chance to see Tricia again.

Chapter Two

A digital bedside clock and a distant street lamp offered the only illumination as Tricia collapsed, fully clothed, onto her bed an hour later, the bed-and-bath routine behind her. From the way her body ached, she would have guessed it was past midnight, but the red clock numbers confirmed it was only nine-thirty. As shadow and light slow-danced along the wall in the shape of maple tree branches, she wondered how long it had been since she’d slept. Truly slept. Days had become months and then metamorphosed into years when she wasn’t watching.

She couldn’t shake the image of Rusty, Jr., who had radiated tension as she’d helped him out of the shower and into his pajamas. His misplaced fury was transferred to everything around him, from the comb that wouldn’t go through his hair to the stuffed dog that landed on the floor next to his bed. He had every right to his anger, for all he’d lost. She understood it, felt it down to her soul.

Nervous tension had her scooting across the bed to flip on the lamp, letting the warm yellow light bathe what had become her favorite room. Here she could be alone with her memories of Rusty, warm thoughts of his arms around her and private thoughts of the sweet intimacies of their marriage.

Reaching for her wedding band on the table and slipping it on, she surveyed the room. In the far corner, she could still see Max’s cradle where it once had rested. A smile settled on her lips as she envisioned her family’s first day in the house, her belly still swollen with the promise of their youngest child. Rusty and she had tumbled together on the bed that night, too exhausted from moving furniture to even love each other in the bungalow they’d struggled to finally afford.

She’d felt so safe then—and always—in his arms. The way she never did now. The way she never would again.

Memories of her husband flashed in her thoughts, in brilliant color this time when they’d become more like a sepia photograph lately, in danger of crumbling. But why were the memories coming tonight, when she needed rest to prepare her for the ordeal of going to church?

The Sunday tradition of attending services as a family was once the highlight of her week, even if they were continually late, and someone was always whispering or making paper airplanes with the bulletins. They were together then, worshiping God. The way it should be. Now every time she sat listening to one of Reverend Bob Woods’s sermons, something seemed missing. Not her belief. She’d never lost that. Without her faith, she never would have survived the last two years. But hope—there just wasn’t enough of that in her heart anymore.

Though she’d regret it in the morning, she let her thoughts travel, through picnics, birthday parties and quiet moments. To Rusty’s contagious smile.

But then another smile stole into her thoughts, so surprising that she flipped over and sat up in bed. Brett Lancaster? The man was a stranger. A stranger who had no business being in her thoughts—or in this room where Rusty’s memory still thrived.

Agitation had her wrapping her arms around her knees. She didn’t want to remember the disaster their would-be date had been. But maybe God had chosen now to convict her heart over her deception in breaking the date.

Why hadn’t she just gone out with Brett and gotten the whole annoying business over with? As adroit as she’d become at avoiding second dates, she already would have said goodbye to Mr. Lancaster and would be free until her next friend insisted on setting her up. Instead, guilt had forced her to reschedule.

Shaking her head, Tricia couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Brett’s mini bowling clinic. At the way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed with Lani. But it was the memory of those same chocolate eyes focusing on her and widening with some indefinable emotion that made her as uncomfortable as it had at the bowling alley.

Suddenly, this rescheduled date felt like a huge mistake. What if Brett had the wrong idea about her, that she actually was open to a relationship? That couldn’t have been further from the truth. He needed to understand that her heart was still committed to her husband.

Who are you trying to convince? She shook away the question and her uncomfortable guilt as she rushed over to the his-and-hers closets and opened one of the doors. On the side that was still his, the closet rod was empty except for a royal-blue jacket bearing the words “R and J Construction” and a sport coat. A lonely Detroit Lions football cap rested on the shelf.

Tricia grabbed the sport coat, Rusty’s only dress jacket aside from the gray suit she’d buried him in, and pressed her face to the collar, inhaling his scent. Her nose burned. The room blurred. Drawing in the smell so deeply that her lungs ached, she held her breath until the survival instinct insisted she gasp. If only she could hold him there, deep inside of her. Her breath hitched as she realized his scent had already begun to fade. How long would it be until she couldn’t smell him anymore, and she had nothing left of him?

So exhausted. For the first time in months, the effort of coping crushed her with its weight. The brave smile and strong words—parts of a facade that said she and the children were fine—crumbled around her. She wasn’t fine. Rusty, Jr. certainly wasn’t fine. His surliness grew more apparent every day, and he was beginning to act out. Lani seemed to curl deeper into herself each week and into her Little House books, where Ma and Pa always came home to Mary, Laura and Carrie. Only Max seemed oblivious, for he would never remember what he’d lost.

As the first tears in weeks came hot and furious, Tricia laid the sport coat aside, clasping the blue jacket and wrapping it around herself. She dropped back on the bed and drew her knees up to her chest, pulling the jacket tight beneath her chin. Again, she breathed Rusty’s scent and fell into a troubled sleep, claiming the only warmth the love of her life could still bring her.

The organist at Hickory Ridge Community Church was still playing the postlude Sunday morning when Charity McKinley hurried up the side aisle, trying to catch Tricia before she could get out the door. Even sitting right near the back hadn’t helped Tricia escape this time. She wondered if anyone would notice if she made a fast break for her station wagon.

“So tell me,” Charity said as soon as she’d given her friend a quick hug.

Tricia glanced down quickly at the children, worried that Rusty, Jr. might repeat some of the last evening’s antics if they mentioned Brett Lancaster.

“Mom, can we go talk to Reverend Bob and Mr. Westin?” Lani indicated with her head toward the minister and youth minister shaking hands with members in the vestibule.

Tricia didn’t have any illusions her daughter wanted to have a heart-to-heart with grown-ups, but she nodded anyway. As expected, her children ran out to join Reverend Bob’s granddaughter and Andrew Westin’s children, who were giggling and banging hangers in the coatrack together. Discordant clanging and chatting voices filled the void as the organist stopped playing.

“How’d it go?” Charity pressed again. “What did you think of Brett? We’re expecting a full report.”

Charity’s husband, Rick, stepped up and caught the tail end of her comment. “No, we’re not. Only one of us is being too nosy for her own good.” He dropped a kiss on Tricia’s cheek. “I hope you had a good time, but don’t let her bully you into telling us about it.”

“Well, I never,” Charity said with an impatient toe tap and a petulant expression that crumbled into a chuckle.

Her husband shook his head and rolled his eyes but gathered his spirited wife into his arms and kissed the top of her golden head. Tricia was still amazed by the transformation Charity had undergone when, first, she’d met Rick and, more importantly, she’d met the Lord close up. Even now the couple were still acting like newlyweds after more than two years. Charity gazed up lovingly at her husband before turning back to Tricia.

“Don’t listen to him. He hates it when I set people up. He thinks I’m bad at it.”

“Especially when you set up a friend with some guy somebody tried to set you up with a few years back.”

“Jealous?” Charity gave him a sidelong glance. “Ignore him. I never went out with Brett. It’s just that Jenny is dying for her brother to meet someone nice.”

At the look of constrained curiosity, Tricia took pity on her matchmaker. “Sorry, there’s not much to say. I met him, but we didn’t go out yet. We had to reschedule.”

Brett probably wouldn’t have told the same story, but Tricia had given the gist of it. And no matter how uncomfortable it would be to go out after their embarrassing meeting, she’d resigned herself to going through with it. She owed him that much.

“Oh, that’s too bad. When are you going? Have you decided what the two of you are going to do? Do you need us to watch the kids?”

Peppered by Charity’s questions, Tricia felt a direct hit from the last one, which probably would have required her to tell the rest of the story about the date that didn’t happen. “No,” she answered too quickly. “I mean…I already asked Hannah.”

Charity’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to say something else, but Rick put his arm around her again. “Remember, sweetheart, matchmaking doesn’t give you rights to all the details.” He pressed his wife against his shoulder and turned to Tricia, his expression serious. “You’re probably not into this stuff, anyway.”

Once again, Rick had come to her rescue, the same way he’d been doing since Rusty died—both emotionally and financially. As much as she hated continuing to rely on him when she should have stood firmly on her own two size seven-and-a-half narrows, she appreciated the support. Losing Rusty had devastated them both. And Rick was probably no more prepared to watch her date other men than she was to begin a social life. His loyalty to his best friend’s memory was still too strong.

“It’s okay,” she said when Rick seemed to expect Tricia to agree with his assumption about her reluctance to begin dating. “We haven’t made firm plans yet.”

Charity nodded. Tricia waved as the couple moved past her toward the exit. Finally, she let go of the breath she’d been holding. Didn’t anyone understand that she was happy? Maybe not ecstatic, but she was content. How many people could say that? She had a nice home, a good church family, three beautiful children and a good start on a self-supportive future. It was enough for her. She just wished it was enough for all of her friends.

Brett took a deep, calming breath as he shuffled up the walk to the tiny white house, more nervous than he’d ever been for a date. A dozen times in the last six days, he’d considered canceling, worried that he was way out of his league dating a widowed mom. He’d even phoned Tuesday to call it off, but at the first sound of her voice, and the corresponding shiver in his spine, he’d heard himself firming up plans for their Friday date instead. Later, he’d scrambled to make sure his dad hadn’t offered the tickets to someone else.

As he reached the front door, it flew open and a barefoot Max zipped out onto the porch. Then the boy stopped himself and extended his hand, as if he’d been carefully coached. “Hi, Mr. Brett.”

“How ya doing, Max?” Brett gripped his hand. “Isn’t the cement cold?”

“It’s April now. That’s almost summer. When it’s sunny, we’ll go swimming.”

He returned the boy’s grin but doubted his logic. Around chilly southeast Michigan, he didn’t see any point in putting on a swimsuit until at least mid-June. Even now, his lined jacket felt no warmer than a wind-breaker. He hauled the boy into his arms and opened the storm door.

A trim blonde with a long ponytail hurried across the living room and jerked to a stop in front of Brett. “Maxwell Thomas Williams, I told you not to go out that door in bare feet. What will your mother say?”

The smile on the young woman’s lips took some of the steam from her firm tone. “You be good, or we won’t watch movies and eat popcorn when your mom leaves.”

Too busy to listen, Max tore to the kitchen table, where his brother and sister were playing a board game. A chorus of moans filtered back to the living room.

The young woman glanced over her shoulder before turning back and extending her hand. “You must be Brett. Hi, I’m Hannah Woods, the baby-sitter.”

“Good to meet you.” As Brett shook her tiny hand, he wondered if she would be strong enough to handle the three Williams kids. But then he remembered that their mother was far smaller than this woman.

“Tricia will be out in a minute.”

“Great.”

He scanned the living room where a sofa, a television and an easy chair shared space with a smattering of framed family photos and snapshots on side tables and walls. All but the most recent shots featured a rusty-haired man with a friendly smile. Brett tried to keep a cool, mental distance from the pictures, only observing that he’d found the origin of the boys’ hair color. But he couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

“That was my daddy. He died,” Lani said, pointing out the obvious, as she showed up beside him wearing fuzzy pink pajamas and smelling of baby shampoo.

“They’re nice pictures.” He hoped it was enough because he could find nothing better to say.

It must have been because the child then skipped around the partial wall that separated the living room from the eat-in kitchen, and rolled the die for her turn, adding a leg to her bug’s body in the game. Next to her, Rusty, Jr. pointedly refused to glance at the guest in the living room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brett saw movement from the hall, and when he would have expected a petite brunette, he saw only an even tinier Cindy Lou Who look-alike with blond ponytails and huge, dramatic green eyes.

Something in his gut clenched. Four? He was having a hard enough time reconciling the idea of going out with a woman who had three kids. But four?

“She’s mine,” Hannah said quickly. “That’s Rebecca.” The child looked up at her name being spoken but scrambled off to play under the kitchen table.

“Oh.”

He wondered how he could have missed the resemblance now that she’d clarified it. Relief must have registered in his expression because Hannah smiled. He would have taken time to study the young woman, who couldn’t have been old enough to be that child’s mother, if not for the second person who appeared in the hallway.

Tricia wasn’t dressed particularly fancy, just a pair of fitted jeans and a prim, turquoise sweater set. It pleased him that she had taken extra effort with her makeup—which she didn’t need—and had clipped her hair back at her nape. Her hairstyle revealed a long expanse of perfect, fair skin on her neck.

Brett’s mouth went dry. Until she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, he wasn’t even aware he’d been staring. What was he doing, acting like an infatuated teenager? He was neither, so he’d better get a grip before people started making mistaken assumptions.

She cleared her throat and glanced at the children playing in the kitchen before turning back to him. “Am I dressed okay? I’ve never been to a hockey game.”

Okay enough to turn every male head at Joe Louis Arena, he figured. But he only said, “Sure, that’s fine, unless you have a Steve Yzerman or Gordie Howe jersey.”

He glanced down at his jeans and navy cardigan over a white turtleneck, trying not to grin at how long it had taken him to pick his outfit. “I left my jersey at home.”

“You two had better get going,” Hannah said as she rushed them toward the door. “Traffic’s going to be terrible on the Lodge.” The young woman didn’t look at either of them, but a small smile appeared on her lips when she handed Tricia her coat.

Because Hannah was probably right about traffic on the John C. Lodge freeway, he hurried Tricia toward his SUV. He was relieved when she didn’t comment on his luxury transportation, a concession to his former life.

He closed her door and crossed to the driver’s seat. “Do you feel like we’ve just been dismissed?”

Tricia shot a glance at the closed curtains of the picture window and then turned to stare out the windshield. “Hannah just didn’t want us to be late.” As they pulled away from the curb, she sneaked another peek back, using the side-view mirror. “She’s a great sitter. The kids will be fine. They’ll have a great time, especially since she and Rebecca are spending the night.”

Was she trying to convince him or her? He was tempted to reach over and squeeze her hand to reassure her, but he hesitated, worried she’d climb out of her skin if he touched her. Instead, he concentrated on merging onto Interstate 96 and tried changing the subject.

“I was surprised the little girl was hers. Hannah doesn’t look old enough to be a mom.”

“She isn’t—or wasn’t—really old enough, but she’s a wonderful mom.” Tricia settled back into the seat, finally relaxing. “Hannah was just seventeen when she got pregnant, but she’s worked so hard to make the best of her difficult situation.”

“I take it the dad isn’t in the picture?”

Tricia shook her head but turned to face him. “She refused to name the father, even under pressure from some church members. I think it was especially hard on her, being the P.K.”

“P.K.?”

“Preacher’s Kid. She’s the daughter of our minister, Reverend Bob Woods.”

“I’d bet that was a huge church scandal.” He hated it when Christians were the first to judge others. The poor girl had probably first been betrayed by a boy and then by the people in her church, the people she trusted. He knew what it was like to have the foundations of one’s life—and even faith—ripped away. It tended to jade a person. He was proof of that.

“It was scandalous at first, but the church has been so supportive of Hannah, even of her decision to keep the baby instead of giving her up for adoption.” Tricia was smiling when he glanced her way. “And you couldn’t find a more devoted grandfather than Reverend Bob.”

“Sounds like Hannah was pretty fortunate.”

“She does her part, too, working hard to get her college degree and still being a great mom to Rebecca. She’s pretty amazing.”

“Yes, she is.”

But he was no longer talking about the other young woman’s situation, and he wondered if Tricia realized it. His date might have been amazed by Hannah’s determination, but he was equally impressed with Tricia’s. How had the woman beside him faced everything that had been thrown at her? Without trying to sound too interested, he’d plied Jenny for details about Tricia this week. How she’d survived her horrible loss two years before astounded him. His own injuries seemed trivial when compared to hers.

As if she, too, wondered where his thoughts had traveled, Tricia changed the subject again. “So you’re Brett Lancaster. Are you any relation to the old movie star Burt Lancaster?”

Brett looked at the dash clock. “That’s seventeen minutes. I wondered how long it would take you to ask.”

“Was my time good or bad?”

“Pretty good. For the record, I’m not related to Burt Lancaster, and I’ve never seen From Here to Eternity beginning to end.”

Tricia’s laugh was so sweet and musical that he wanted to come up with a comic monologue to make her do it again.

“I’m glad you made that clear.” She paused. “Hmm, next subject. How’d you manage to get these tickets, anyway? I’d always heard it was impossible to get Detroit Red Wings tickets.”

“Ever heard of Lancaster Cadillac-Pontiac-GMC in Bloomfield Hills? I am related to that Lancaster. He’s my dad.”

“I think I’ve heard of it.”

Her answer sounded noncommittal, as if she were neither impressed nor put off by the fact that his family had money. Well, she couldn’t be that driven by money if she’d agreed to go out with a police officer.

“Dad has season tickets through his work that he mostly uses to take out clients.”

She turned to face him. “Do you go to games often?”

“Rarely. And don’t get too excited about these tickets. This is one of the last regular-season games and attendance is sometimes low. If this were the end of next week during the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, we’d be out of luck in getting tickets.”

When he glanced at her again in his peripheral vision, she nodded. “I get it. I’m not supposed to be impressed, but can’t I be, just a little? This is my first hockey game, ever, and it happens to be the Detroit Red Wings.”

“Okay, just a little.” He peeked at the tickets he’d stuck in the visor, glad he’d gone against his recent habit of declining his father’s gifts for the strings that went with them. As he pulled behind the long line of cars taking the exit for Joe Louis Arena, he resigned himself to dealing with those strings later.

“Okay, be impressed now. Here’s the Joe. Welcome to ‘Hockeytown.’”

Chapter Three

Applause, cheers of “Hey, hey, Hockeytown” and the bass beat of some sixties rock anthem pounded in her ears as Tricia watched two players battle against the boards for the puck. Though air whooshed from a forward’s lungs as he hit the glass barrier, he pushed away and skated behind the goal to recapture the loose puck.

The Detroit team was playing one of those new expansion teams with a name about as forgettable, at least according to Tricia’s date, who doubled as her hockey interpreter. From their fifth-row seats, she could see, hear and feel every exciting bit of it.

“Let’s go Red Wings,” the crowd chanted, with Tricia and Brett joining in the chorus.

The exhilarating game—that had to be the reason for the way her pulse tripped and all of her nerve endings tingled, as if she’d suddenly awakened from an overlong nap. Taking another big bite of her Coney dog and wiping her mouth on her napkin, she shivered from the arena’s refrigeration and wished she’d worn a heavier sweater.

“Cold?” As he asked, Brett draped her coat over her shoulders.

“Better. Thanks.” Her shoulders warmed all over, but especially where his hands had brushed. She shook the sensation away, inhaling another breath of that strange, stale scent Brett had explained was the ice itself.

The buzzer sounded to mark the end of the second period. Fans scooted past them on their way up to the concession stands, but Brett and Tricia remained seated.

“Are you having a good time?” He turned in the cramped seats until his knees brushed hers. Amber specks like dots of confetti danced in his light brown eyes—the spots only noticeable from this close up.

“I am.” She didn’t want to lie. Tonight was the most fun she’d had on a date since…well, since she’d started dating again. It was so much better than those dreadful dinner dates she’d subjected herself to in the last year, with stilted conversations and self-conscious dining. Miserable in every way.

Strange, she could barely remember what it was like when she and Rusty had dated. It had been so long ago, and they’d both been so young and broke. This situation was different, so she should just enjoy it instead of making useless comparisons. Why compare what she couldn’t have?

Tonight wasn’t a serious date, anyway. Maybe that’s why she was enjoying herself. While some of the men she’d been out with had been so nervous and intense that she’d worried they would propose before the waiter brought the main course, Brett seemed relaxed. In his element, even.

He didn’t appear to expect more from her than to enjoy the game and, maybe, to learn the definitions of “face-off,” “blue line” and “icing.” The last term he insisted wasn’t what went on a fudge cake, either. He’d told her there would be a quiz later, which she fully intended to ace.

“Well, what’s the verdict?” he asked as the Zamboni made its first wet pass around the ice. “Does hockey pass the muster?”

“Absolutely.” So did the company, though she didn’t mention that. “I’ll never be able to flip past a hockey game on TV again without stopping and comparing it to this. Hockey’s different in person.”

“It’s also a different experience in the nosebleed seats, but I’d just as soon skip that joy, if you don’t mind. Especially the racing pulse and lack of breath.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Afraid of heights?”

“Not afraid, exactly. I just prefer to keep my feet on God’s green earth is all.”

A chuckle bubbled low in her belly, and Tricia couldn’t stop it from frothing over. She felt guilty enjoying herself this much—almost too much. Were widows allowed to smile this often? Brett made a nasty face at her but finally laughed.

He shrugged. “Really, I like to watch the game better from up close, even if it’s harder to see the strategies, the cool passes and great screens.”

She shook her head at his funny bravado. Typical guy, he wouldn’t admit to being anything but fearless. “The game’s probably harder to see when you’re breathing into a brown paper bag or hanging your head between your knees.”

“There’s that, too,” Brett agreed. But something farther across the lower bowl of fan seats must have caught his attention because he looked away.

A videotape started playing on the four-sided scoreboard high above center ice, with Red Wings players scoring goals against various teams. Cheers and whoops erupted each time the tape showed the players in red and white firing the puck past an opposing goalie.

The next squeal Tricia heard came from her own lips, surprising her. Attending this game had been so much easier than she’d expected when Brett had first suggested it. At least this professional sport was hockey, rather than football and Rusty’s beloved Detroit Lions. Rusty had always said he would take the children to a Lions’ game when they were a little older. Just something else in a long list of things that would never happen now.

The temptation to grow maudlin filled her until she glanced at Brett. Turning back from whatever he’d been studying before, he patted her hand on the armrest and then lifted his soda from the seat’s drink holder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m having a great time.”

“Me, too,” she answered, trying not to react to what had been only a friendly touch. A buddy touch, nothing for her neck to get all warm about. She ought to feel lucky he hadn’t slapped her on the back the way men were wont to do with their friends to act chummy.

“And I think we should go out again.”

She wished he’d slapped her on the back instead of saying that. It had knocked the wind out of her, anyway. Her cheeks grew as heated as her neck, so Tricia took the coward’s way out and turned to sip her own cola.

“We’ll have to do something besides watch hockey, though. We’d never get playoff tickets.” He paused as if waiting for her to answer before he spoke again. “But if you don’t think that’s a good idea…”

As he allowed his words to trail away, letting her off the hook, her mind raced. Did she want an escape? This dating thing had no future, but they were having fun together, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much in adult company. And she really did need to get out more. They could probably even grow to be great pals, like some of the men attending this game together, if she only gave them a chance.

She was still convincing herself when Brett shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure—”

“I’d like that.”

Brett stared at her a few seconds and then grinned. “Well, good. That’ll be great.” He touched her hand again, and she had the strange feeling the brief caress wasn’t one a couple of hockey buddies might share. Their gazes met, and an awareness unfolded inside of her, until she forced herself to look away.

Obviously, she hadn’t explained the parameters of their new friendship to him, and he’d probably misunderstood her interest. With a quick brush to expel the tickle on her hand, she turned to him to clear up the misunderstanding.

However, whatever had caught her date’s attention near the Red Wings’ team box earlier had grabbed it again. The way his body tensed, he appeared at a strange full-alert. Tricia saw them then, several men, swilling tall plastic cups of beer and wearing jerseys for teams that weren’t playing. They crowded close around the tunnel through which hockey players were emerging from their locker rooms.

Someone must have alerted security guards to a possible disturbance because they were making their way across the stands. Before the guards reached the tunnel, though, one of the men upended his cup, narrowly missing a player.

At once, fists started flying—not from the players, who were being ushered by their teammates toward the ice, but from fans who took exception to the treatment of their hometown heroes. A huddle of bodies appeared from nowhere as reinforcements leaped into the fray and other fans stood to catch the action.

Brett came out of his seat just as quickly, but his movements were automatic—fast glances toward the exits and a hand reaching reflexively for his right hip. Coming away with nothing. A gun? A shiver clambered up Tricia’s spine, and bile backed up in her throat. Had he been reaching for a holster? Only after he patted his sweater-covered hip a few times did Brett lower into his seat again.

Further down the stands, security guards removed the instigators from the arena, but Tricia barely noticed. Brett shoved both hands back through his hair and shook his head as he turned back to her.

“Now that was embarrassing,” he said.

He seemed to want her to say something, but she could only stare, her blood now as cold in her veins as her cheeks from the arena’s refrigerated chill. Her pulse raced, and an icy sweat covered her hands. When she started to speak, she choked.

Brett’s eyes widened, and he reached over to pat her back, but she jerked away from his touch. The situation that had felt so comfortable before became awkward, and his nearness, suffocating.

Finally, she found her voice. “I need you to tell me something. Are you a cop?”

“I can’t believe no one ever told you I was a trooper,” Brett said with an exasperated sigh as he pulled out of the parking structure nearly an hour later. What he wanted to say was I can’t believe it matters so much that I’m a cop, but from her stiff posture and wringing hands, he’d be a fool not to see that it did.

She sat still in the car seat next to him, the same way she’d been for most of the game’s third period and even during the walk through the tunnel that connected the arena to the parking garage. Jubilant fans had packed in all around them, still cheering and making the cattle sounds of the exit ritual, but Tricia had been eerily silent. Her strange reaction cut him a lot deeper than it should have, like history coming back to bite him on the backside. But he wouldn’t sit back and wait for it to happen this time.

“No one mentioned my job at all?” he asked, still incredulous. “Nothing about me moving to Livingston County so I could be close to work at the Brighton Post?”

She released a long, slow breath. “Charity didn’t tell me anything about what you did.”

What Tricia didn’t say, what she couldn’t possibly have known, made more difference to him than what she’d said. Had Jenny mentioned that he worked for the Michigan State Police, her friend would have passed that along to Tricia when they’d arranged the date.

Of anyone, his sister, who’d followed her own heart into nursing, should have understood his need to follow his, especially after Claire called off the wedding. But this was proof that even his sister was ashamed of the career that had become so much a part of his identity. Why should she be any different from the rest of the family?

“What exactly did your friend tell you about me?” He had to unclench his jaw to continue. “No, let me guess. Decent guy, twenty-nine, not a jerk, without any facial disfigurement. Goes to church. Has a job so he won’t expect you to pay for the movie tickets. That’s all, right?”

A strange sound, like an ironic chuckle, erupted in her throat. “That’s about it.”

“I can’t believe that. Jenny told me you worked part-time at Kroger, you were taking college classes, and you wanted someday to own a gourmet cooking store in Milford.” About him, his sister had purposely mentioned nothing. “If she didn’t tell you what I did, then why didn’t you ask?”

Tricia shrugged, her silence answering for her. It didn’t matter to her how he earned his living when she never intended to see him more than once. One blind date. No second one. Obviously, something had gone awry in her plan if she’d agreed to go out with him again. He remembered her reluctance to answer when he’d asked. Now it didn’t matter, anyway. She’d changed her mind about him. All because he was a cop.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t get it. Why did you agree to be set up when it’s obvious you didn’t want to go?”

She sighed again. “It was easier than saying no and having Charity try to convince me. And it was easier to let someone do something for me than to let them feel sorry for me.”

Something struck inside him that he might have called a connection if he weren’t so determined to stay angry with the whole situation. “That’s why I agreed, too, but I made Jenny wheedle first.”

“And then I stood you up.”

The sides of his mouth pulled up against his will. “Yep, that’s the way I remember it.” He paused, searching for a safe topic. Since she’d finally started talking, he didn’t want to risk making her clam up again. “Hey, I think it’s time for that hockey quiz.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn slightly toward him, so he took it as a go-ahead. “What is the definition of a forecheck?”

“Hey, that one wasn’t on the study guide. I protest.”

“Okay, okay. A player forechecks when he blocks the progress of an opponent in his own defensive zone. So, what’s a face-off?”

“I know that one. That’s when two players from opposite teams stand in one of those circles and fight to get control of the puck.” She settled back into her seat, satisfied with herself.

Brett tried to continue the hockey quiz, but another question ate at him until he finally couldn’t resist asking it. “Tell me, how many blind dates have you been on…lately?” When she tightened, he was glad he hadn’t said “since your husband died.”

At first she didn’t answer, but finally she gave an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe fourteen.”

“Fourteen? Really?”

“It’s strange. I’ve been out with more people in the last year than I had in my whole life…before.”

He wasn’t the only one dancing around the subject of her late husband. “In the last year? That’s more than one a month. I wouldn’t have thought there’d be that many single guys around.”

She chuckled at that. “Not just single guys, single Christian guys. Remember?” For a second, she appeared relaxed, with her shoulders curving forward. “Almost every one of my friends knew someone I just had to meet. Some don’t realize that just because a guy has a strong faith doesn’t mean he’ll be the best date—for me, anyway.”

“Kissed a lot of frogs, have you?”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

At her reaction, melancholy settled over Brett, though he’d only intended to lighten the mood with his joke. She probably hadn’t been kissed at all since becoming a widow, and he didn’t like the thought of this beautiful woman having no haven in someone’s arms. A voice inside suggested his arms might be a perfect fit, but he tried to ignore that nonsense. He was no more ready to leap into a relationship again than she appeared to be.

They drove in silence a few minutes as Interstate 696 merged into I-96, and they neared the Milford Road exit. Finally, Brett asked the question that had been twirling through his mind.

“I know you’ve had fourteen first dates recently, but how many second dates have you had?” Her sudden intake of breath showed she’d realized what he was really asking. Would she or wouldn’t she still go out again with him?

“I’m so sorry. If only I’d known—”

“What do you have to be sorry about?” He interrupted her to delay the kiss-off that was building. “You didn’t answer the question. How many?”

Her word came out like a whisper. “None.”

“But you said you would—”

This time she interrupted him, as if to prevent him from reminding her what she’d said. “I won’t be able to go out with you again.”

Frustration melded with resentment over past and present slights until Brett couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s the big deal about me being a cop? You’d think I was a convicted felon or something.”

“Your job involves risk.”

He acknowledged her comment with a shrug. That was a given. A trooper took a certain amount of risk every time he climbed into his patrol car, every time he stepped out of it to ticket a driver for a traffic violation. He accepted it as part of the job but didn’t waste energy worrying about it.

“And your point is?”

She scooted closer to the passenger door. “Did anyone tell you about how Rusty died?”

His head jerked and his stomach tightened at her question. They’d both been tiptoeing around the subject all night, and she’d just waded in waist deep. Now that she’d named him, the dead man seemed to be here, squeezed in the SUV between their two bucket seats. “A construction accident, right?”

“Yeah. He was walking the walls on the project, something that’s dangerous even in the best conditions. But that morning it was damp from the last night’s storm. It was windy. Rusty still thought he needed to be up there walking atop a two-story wall that was only three-and-a-half inches wide. He lost his balance. He hit a pile of bricks at the bottom.”

By the time she reached the end of the story, he wished he hadn’t encouraged her to tell it. She stared blankly into the darkness, reliving a moment no wife should have to endure. His hands ached so much to gather her into his arms that he gripped the wheel so he wouldn’t succumb to the need and drive them right off the road.

The worst part was her husband’s accident sounded preventable. The man had no business being where he was—Tricia had nearly said so herself. What kind of idiot would have taken that chance when he had a family to think about? When he had someone like Tricia to come home to?

“I’m sorry” was the only decent thing he could think to say, the only response that didn’t include referring to her beloved husband as an irresponsible imbecile.

Tricia nodded at the windshield but didn’t look at him. “Rusty was always taking risks.”

She said no more. She didn’t have to. In her roundabout way, Tricia had finally told him what he needed to know. His career mattered—a lot—because of the risks he accepted as part of the job. She’d buried her husband because of the risks he took. Now she didn’t want any part of someone else who took them.

Brett tried to focus on the road as traffic slowed to twenty-five miles per hour at the Milford village limit, but he couldn’t keep from glancing at her stoic profile. Still, he felt compelled to defend his career choice that was as much a part of him as those children were part of her.

“I don’t ever remember wanting to be anything else,” he began, waiting for her to turn to him, but she didn’t. “Whenever Jenny and I played cops and robbers with our brother, Kyle, I was always the cop. Jenny always had to be the nurse.” The notion struck him as strange that Kyle had always played the robber, fitting for the failure he’d turned out to be.

“I even chose criminal justice as one of my majors in college. Business was the other.” He paused, remembering and regretting decisions he’d made. “But then Dad needed a new business manager at the dealership, and Claire and I decided it would be a better choice, so I—”

“Claire?”

He should have been glad that she was finally involved in the conversation, but he hated that she’d picked up on that little detail, and the fact that he’d even mentioned her. “My ex-fiancée.”

“Oh.”

Good. At least she hadn’t asked for gory details. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t love Claire Davis, and he wanted to do nothing but forget her now.

“Anyway, after that was over, I took the Civil Service written test. I tested twice before I was invited to take the physical agility test and then the oral board interview.”

“Sounds like an intense selection process.”

Shocked that she seemed interested at all, he continued. “That’s not the half of it. I still had to go through a psych evaluation, a drug test and a complete physical before I could go to the Michigan State Police Recruit School.”

“Was it all worth it?”

He smiled in the darkness before he answered her. “Oh, yeah. I get up every day, looking forward to going to work. I love all of it, patrolling the highway, working with the other troopers, even seeing so many sides of people. You just become so engrossed in it. It defines who you are.”

“It sounds like the job suits you.”

“It does.”

Brett’s chest loosened as he pulled to a stop across the street from her house. Maybe she would relax, too, and give him a chance. At least he hadn’t been stupid and talked about putting his life in his fellow troopers’ hands and holding theirs in his. Not everyone could handle that reality, and Tricia probably was one of those.

“I had a nice time tonight,” Tricia started.

Brett heard the “but” before she had a chance to say it. “Wait, Tricia.” Suddenly he needed to prove himself to her in the same way he’d being trying to show his family he could make more of a difference in police work than he ever could with the Lancaster money.

“You know, we’re only going out as friends. It’s not as if either of us has anything long-term in mind, right?” He saw that she was about to interrupt, so he pressed on. “And we have fun together. You said that yourself. Why don’t we just play it by ear? You know, casual. I don’t know about you, but I really needed a night out.”

Tricia tilted her head, as if she was considering his offer. He hated that it mattered so much that she say yes.

Finally, she shook her head. “It wouldn’t be a very good idea.”

“Come on, Tricia. You know you want to. And I like you. I think you like me, too.”

But she only shook her head again.

His chest felt heavy as a disappointment too intense for a simple rejection following just one date festered inside him. “Then tell me why.”

She expelled what sounded like a long-held breath. “Going out with you would be a constant reminder of all I’ve lost.”

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